Recently, I got a message on the answering machine from the phone company saying they were going to cut off my phone service for non-payment.  Since I pay my phone bill automatically every month on my credit card, and I have ever since I signed up with this company a few years ago, I did not see how this could be. 

So I put in a call to see what the problem was. After obediently listening to all my options because they might have changed since the last time I called in, I pushed every button exactly in the prescribed manner.  Finally, 25 short minutes later, I finally had a human on the end of the line – Bobbie Jo from Bangladesh!

I very carefully told her my story about how I have always paid my bill with my credit card and that no other charges to this card had been denied.  And then she transferred me and I told two of her friends my story and they both transferred me and I told two of their friends, and so on and so on.  I was just like Heather Locklear in that shampoo commercial from the 80s!  I told everyone in Asia my story in painstaking detail, including my name, account number, zip code, zodiac sign, and that I once had dinner with Ralph Nader.  Until finally I was transferred to Darryl in building maintenance where this fun fun game ended when he disconnected me.  At this point, my boiling blood was racing through my arteries at the speed of light which caused my eyeballs to pop clear out of my head, bounce off my computer and roll under my desk.

Later, much much later, I learned that the phone company had requested funds from my credit card company three times but failed to collect.  And instead they decided that they should threaten to cut my phone service off for non-payment.  And it only took me six or seven hours of my free time to track down and solve their problem. Doesn’t everyone want to spend their free time on the phone doing pro bono work for the phone company?  Really, can you think of anything more fun?

Later that same week I bought a camera from a national retailer that was going out of business in our area.  Unfortunately I discovered after I got home and tried to upload my pictures that it had come with the wrong USB cord. So I drove ten miles back to the store and was given another USB cord.  I even tested it there in the store.  But when I got it home, it did not work.  It didn’t plug in “enough” which apparently is sort of important.

I immediately drove another ten miles back to the store to find Bubba, the fellow who had “helped” me, but he had gone to lunch and no one knew if/when he was going to come back or where the original cord was.  So now I didn’t even have the original cord to mail back in with my brand new camera to the manufacturer.

I inquired of the store manager what my options might be and he pretty much said, “You’re screwed.”  And so then I said, something like, well if this is your idea of customer service, no wonder you are going out of business and then he said something snotty and you can’t really out-snotty me, so I one upped him and then he walked away and then I may have yelled at his back.  It’s always a good day when you are shouting in public at a bald guy wearing a red vest.

Not wanting to scrounge around behind their customer service desk for my eyeballs, I took a deep breath and just stood there silently counting.  One of the clerks took pity on me and offered me a card reader doodaddy thing, which as it turns out, works just fine, but I had to go home and explain to Antique Daddy that I had just spend several hundred dollars on a new camera with no USB cord.  But hey! Look! I still have my eyeballs!

Later that same week, I drove ten miles to visit my branch bank, my bank with whom I’ve had an account for 26 years, only to find that they had moved.  I called to find out where they had moved to and then drove another ten miles to the new location only to find that they were not there either.  So I put in another phone call to the customer service person who was neither apologetic nor helpful before she disconnected me as she was transferring me, probably to Bobbie Jo in Bangladesh. And then my cell phone died a sudden death, so I couldn’t even call her back and yell at her.

Knowing that I would need my eyeballs to drive home, I merely rolled them instead and went home to lie down.

And that’s when I decided that the world needs a spanking and I needed a time out.

This meme has been around the blogosphere for some time now and since I am too tired to write anything else several readers have tagged me, I thought I’d play along. Consider yourself tagged.

I once had dinner with Ralph Nader. He is exactly in person as he is in public. You have to admire that.

The only previous boyfriend I am still friendly with is my boyfriend from kindergarten. Probably because he is still the same person he was in kindergarten – smart, funny, cute and genuine.

I once had a paranormal experience.

I love the history of First Ladies and The White House. First Ladies are kind of accidental politicians and I find their role in history to be fascinating.

I’ve never not had bangs.

I am a distant relative of Harry Truman who once said, “If you can’t convince them, confuse them.”

I have always wanted a sister.

The other day I decided that I would class it up around here and so I went grocery shopping at Target instead of Wal-Mart. I put on real clothes and I even wore my good sandals instead of my flip-flops.

The bad thing about grocery shopping at Target is that by the time you load up your cart with dollar bin crap stuff and fashion accessories and home décor and t-shirts and kitchen gadgets and a CD and a birthday card and a toy for a very good boy and stuff that I now can’t even remember – there is no room for groceries. And then you have to go to Wal-Mart the next day to get groceries. But not before explaining to your spouse why we have dollar bin stuff and a CD, but no cereal.

As luck would have it, I had just enough room in my cart for a carton of rice milk, the main reason I went “grocery” shopping in the first place.

As luck would not have it, there was only one carton of rice milk left and it was waaaaaay back in the refrigerator case and not a soul around to help me get it. Unless I had the arms of Dikembe Mutombo I was not going to reach that milk. However, that bit of knowledge and information did not stop me from trying, no siree. I was a mom on a mission. I was going to get milk for my child even if I had to army crawl into the refrigerator case. And so I did.

What I didn’t count on is that my lovely leather Papagallo sandals would be so slippery. As I leaned into the case I sorta slipped out of my sandals and launched myself headlong into the case. I got my hands on the carton (yay!) but only because the freezer door hit me in the butt (boo!) and propelled me forward that extra half inch (yay!)

In spite of the angry protest put up by my knees, I backed out of the refrigerator case, now as fresh a refrigerated cucumber. I put my sandals back on and turned just in time to see a very puzzled looking stock boy with a semi-load of rice milk.

As I left the store with a cart full of groceries whatever and rice milk, it was raining lightly. I’m not exactly the prissy type, so I decided to make a sashay for it. When you have on good sandals, you don’t run, you sashay. Unfortunately, sashsaying in good sandals on damp pavement may cause you to spontaneously enact moves seen only at the conclusion of a figure skating program.

I did not know that I could still do the splits.

Hi. I’m hiding out down here in the archives with a bottle of Merlot and some cheese and crackers. Want to join me? Oh lookee! Here’s a post from last August.

We are officially in the dead of summer here in Texas.

My flip flops have melted into the pavement like bubble gum. What the mole hasn’t destroyed of my lawn, the sun has burnt beyond recognition. I can barely stand the sight of my shorts and tank tops that I couldn’t wait to wear back in April. I have soured on summer. I am ready to break up with summer. If summer were my boyfriend, I would beat him to death with my electric bill. The thrill of summer is gone folks.

Because it has been so miserable outside, Sean and I have been spending a lot of time indoors together. A lot of time indoors together. Which has given us both a bad case of cabin fever, the primary symptom of which is repeating ones self. Repeating ones self.

One afternoon last week, in a state of Freon-induced dementia, I decided to get out our Ryan’s Room Mambo Combo Tent Playhouse and assemble it in the den in an effort to occupy and amuse my child thus alleviating the symptoms of cabin fever and so that I might avoid cannibalizing my child for yet another day. Although my precious little spawn is mighty tasty – a little like cheese enchiladas.

In my mind, my very tiny blonde mind, I imagined my child sitting quietly and patiently nearby assisting me in the construction of Ryan’s Room, handing me the little white framing tubes upon request like a surgical nurse. Delusion is another symptom of cabin fever. Another symptom.

What Ryan doesn’t tell you about his stupid room is that the assembly of the 147 parts requires an advanced engineering degree, the flexibility of a Chinese acrobat and the patience of Mother Teresa. I have none of these things.

Because I am a methodical person when delusional, I dumped out all the parts and sorted them putting all parts of similar shape and size together. Because Sean is also methodical, he resorted all parts of similar shape and size into one big pile, which he stuffed into the bowels of the sofa. Yet, I managed to assemble one whole tent frame without losing it. Too much. It was a feat of engineering and personal restraint.

As I stood back to admire my work, Antique Daddy walked through and asked how I planned to get the frame inside the nylon tent form. Some people are so annoyingly logical. Of course I had a plan. My plan was to curse Ryan and his room and his tents and his mother and father. Then I would locate the nylon tent form, which Sean had filled with Brio train tracks and taken somewhere. Then I would disassemble the frame, afterwhich I would wedge my antique behind into the flaccid boneless yet cheerfully colored tent form and finally I would reconstruct the frame from the inside. Right after I remembered where I last put the Tequila.

So I disassembled the frame, resorted the parts, crawled into the deflated tent and asked Sean to hand me one of the long white plastic rods, labeled A so that I might begin constructing our afternoon of summer fun. As I stuck my hand out to receive Part A, I felt Part A beating me on top the head. Beating me on top the head. And then I lost it. I tried to get out of the tent and have a word about respect with the boy, but I was trapped like an angry cat in a pillow case.

And then I realized I was craving a Margarita and cheese enchiladas.

7am. – Coffee
Pour first cup of coffee. Bump cup on edge of counter. Favorite cup breaks and splashes moderately hot coffee down the front of the cabinets and all over my feet. Do the walking on hot coals dance. Clean up mess.

7:30 – Eggs
Remove egg from carton to crack into pan. Drop egg on my foot en route. Hobble over to the sink to wipe yolk from between toes leaving a trail of egg slime from stove to sink. Clean up mess.

7:40 – Toast
Toast pops up. Reach for butter tub. Knock brand new tub of butter off counter. Splat. Falls open side down – of course – and not just on the floor, but again, on my foot. Hobble over to the sink and wipe butter from between toes. Take note that this is third time I’ve had my foot in the kitchen sink this morning. A new record. Put mostly clean glop of butter back in tub when no one is looking. Clean up mess. Spread questionable butter on cold toast to serve to my child.

7:50 – Call Sean to table to eat toast and eggs. Bump plate on the edge of the table launching scrambled eggs into centerpiece and pile of yesterday’s mail. Pick eggs off the table and put back on plate. Clean up visible mess.

8:10 – Get Dressed
Attempt to improve attitude with tube of mascara. Drop mascara brush down front of white shirt. Watch in amazement as mascara wand rolls off the vanity and – you guessed it – onto my foot. And then onto the rug. Consider kicking mascara wand across the bathroom until I see image of interested 3-year-old in mirror behind me. Make a better bad choice and mutter “damage” under my breath. Wipe mascara from between my toes. Remove rug and shirt to the laundry to join other collateral damage of the morning.

8:30 – Plan Day
Ask Sean what fun thing he’d like to do today. “The funnest thing I can think of is to play with you Mommy,” he says. Heart pops out of my chest and lands in a big sloppy mess at my feet where I splash around in it like Gene Kelly.

(beeeeep!) Sean and I are busy playing in the sandbox and can’t get to the computer. Please leave a message at the end of this recycled post and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. (beeeeep!)

In my washing machine right now, there is a load of musty-smelling bath towels that need to be washed. Again. For the third time in a row. You would think that a modern woman like me with the modern conveniences of a washer and a dryer in her home could manage to get a load of laundry washed and dried, if not folded and put away, in less than three days. You would think that if you didn’t have kids. If you do, well, then you understand that even your interruptions are interrupted by interruptions. And unlike a two-year-old, laundry will just sit quietly, steeping in it’s own mildew, waiting patiently for you to come back.

Before I had a child, laundry was a day and not a state of being. Now laundry is not only a state of being but a decorating scheme. There is laundry on the laundry room floor waiting its turn for a weekend in the washer. There is laundry in the dryer waiting for Godot. There is laundry in the basket on the sofa waiting to be dumped out and jumped in for the umpteenth time. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. There are piles of laundry on the breakfast bar hoping to hitch a ride to the bedroom. And yet another pile of laundry positioned just so on a sofa table where a lamp used to be, where you might expect to see an artful display of books or a vase or even a Tonka truck. But no, that would be so expected, so pedestrian. A stack of gym socks and underwear says so much more about who we are.

Here at the House of Antique, we are on the on the cutting edge of design. Laundry chic, the next decorating trend. You heard it here first.

This post was originally published in April of 2006.

That is the question.

I have noticed in the last several years, there is disturbing new social trend — hugging. And I don’t think I like it.

That is not to say that I don’t like to be hugged. Okay it is to say that. I have well-defined social boundaries. I’m not a touchy-feely kind of gal. I’m a bit uptight on the reserved side. I like to be hugged only by people I know and love and only when I’m expecting it. I don’t like any sudden moves.

Truth be told, I don’t even really like to shake hands, being the germophobe that I am, but I know the handshake. I’m comfortable with the handshake. I perfected my handshake back in the 80s when it was the unquestionable protocol for any situation. Anything less was rude, anything more was sexual harassment.

But now, this hugging trend has complicated things because you don’t know what to expect — a shake or a hug?

A few Sundays ago we visited a church and I saw someone that I sort of know, which means that I miraculously remembered his first name. As he walked toward me I panicked. Was he a hugger or a shaker? I couldn’t remember. He drew closer and closer. Hugger or shaker, which was it? A sweat broke out on my brow. He must have been thinking the same thing because we approached each other like two sumo wrestlers taking to the mat. We ended up doing an elaborate hug-shake that resembled some sort square dance. Very weird and very awkward.

And as if figuring out when to hug and when to shake weren’t bad enough, some people have adopted the social kiss. You just thought a misdirected hug was embarrassing. Just wait until you misdirect your puckered up lips.

This actually happened to me once at a holiday party. My date and I took note of the fact that the hostess was a kisser when we saw her saying (kissing) goodbye to guests who were leaving as we were arriving. So then later, as we made our way to the door to leave, we were prepared because we had seen her kiss those people. My date leaned over to drop one on her cheek and for some inexplicable reason, she turned her head just as his lips reached critical mass and he ended up kissing her squarely on the lips. While her husband and I stood there watching, wearing puzzled and appalled expressions. Very weird and very very awkward. She had faked him out. I immediately turned to her husband and pumped his hand like a dry well. Then we got out of there as fast as we could, wishing we’d had a few more drinks so we wouldn’t remember to be embarrassed.

Shaking, hugging, kissing – too many options, too many ways to go wrong, too many ways to embarrass oneself. I think the Japanese have it right – bowing. The perfect option for an uptight germophobe with personal space issues like me.

Overheard from the bathroom:

Antique Daddy: Okay, aim…. Very good…. No Sean, you don’t need toilet paper.

Sean: But Mommy give me toilet paper.

Antique Daddy: Yeah, but she’s a girl and she doesn’t know any better.

The freezer is the place where you store food for two years before you throw it away.

The End.

No, not quite the end.

After you chunk six cubic feet of unrecognizable two-year-old frozen gray matter into the trash, you haul it out to the curb for your most favorite of civil servants, the trash collectors — the saintly men who take away the diapers. And then the next morning, when you go out to get the newspaper, you find a ham bone on your driveway, the same ham bone that two years ago, you were going to use to make some gourmet soup. The soup you were going to serve in your delusional Martha Stewart world where you make quaint Christmas ornaments out of tin cans and paperclips and edible entrees out of chunks of frosty gray stuff. And then you scurry around in your robe in 29-degree weather picking 2004’s leftover Thanksgiving dinner off your neighbor’s lawn before the sun comes up.

The End.

Sorry Clarence Birdseye. It’s true. The only things I’ve ever used out of my freezer are: popsicles, Cool Whip and…. let me think – oh, ice cubes! And Margarita mix. That’s it. The four basic food groups.

I hear of these large families who buy food on sale and they grow vegetables and they freeze it all. In a freezer! And then from the bounty of their freezer, they are able to feed their families of 29 for $1.37 a year! And I don’t know how they do it. Because for me, once something goes into the freezer, that’s the end of it – outta sight and outta mind! For two years!

Well, out of sight until I’m picking it out of my bushes at 5:30 in the morning.

Jeff Foxworthy says that if you spend more than 40 hours a week at Wal-Mart and you don’t work there – you might be a redneck. This gives me pause for concern.

So.

Yesterday, I was at Wal-Mart for the few things I had failed to get on my previous five trips earlier in the week. I tend to have bad luck when it comes to check out lines and I’ve learned that the key is not to find the shortest line, but to spot the most skilled checker.

With that criterion in mind, I landed in a line directly behind THE electric cart lady. The checker was a young man, about 20 and he was reasonably proficient. He managed to get electric cart lady checked out and on her not-so-merry way in no time at all and then he began checking my few things.

I noticed that as I pulled my cart forward to the bag-turnstyle-thingee that electric cart lady had left behind a bag that contained a carton of eggs. So I told the young man checking the groceries that she probably hadn’t gotten too far and that if he hurried, he could catch her. So I’m standing there with outstretched arms holding a bag of eggs across the conveyor belt as though I’m offering him my first-born son. And checkout boy just looks at me. And then he looks at the eggs. And then back at me. With contempt. I’m not sure if the contempt was for me or for the eggs. Maybe he can’t eat dairy, I don’t know. But then he rolls his eyes to emphasize his contempt for 46-year-old women offering eggs. And I could see why. After all, a man of his stature and in his position could not be seen running after an electric cart lady hollering, “Ma’am, you forgot your eggs!” So undignified.

So to help him in making a good choice, I thrust the eggs at him again and said to him in my best mother voice, “Young man. Go. Take that woman her eggs.” I nodded my head at him and gave him my disturbing “is it sweet or is it wicked” smile. And that must have frightened him because he took the eggs and trotted after electric cart lady, but not before heaving a sigh of yet more contempt. I waited patiently for his return while the three people in line behind me took turns heaving sighs of contempt in my direction. It’s good practice for when Sean becomes a teenager.

When he resumed his post, I said, “There now. Aren’t you glad you did that? Wasn’t she appreciative?”

And he said flatly, “No. No she wasn’t.”

“But oh! Think of all the stars in your crown!” I said with much merriment.

No. I didn’t really say that. I just said, “Oh. I can see that.”

As I left, I checked the bag-turnstyle-thingee three times to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I didn’t want checkout boy and three contempt-heaving shoppers to return my eggs to me one knuckleball at a time.